Memoirs Of Vinca
by Shaolin
Summary: The fictionalised memoirs of a Briton slave girl who becomes Commodus' confidant and soulmate. Reviews much appreciated!
1. Default Chapter

Memoirs Of Vinca

A Slave Girl In Rome's Imperial Palace, 

c.170-181 AD

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Translator's Note_: The following manuscript, written circa 185-190 AD, is remarkable in that it reveals some startling facts about life in Rome's Imperial Palace under the later Antonine rulers Marcus Aurelius and Commodus, a period which continues to elude and confound even the most diligent scholars of Roman History, despite its pivotal essence. Distanced as we are in time from its' author, we cannot vouch for the authenticity of the portraits within; assuming, however, that it is genuine, this manuscript stands as the most intimate and complete picture to date of the major players in this particular Roman historical cornerstone._

It is rumoured that the manuscript was discovered, in near-pristine condition, beneath the stone floor of a long-since-abandoned Roman villa on the hillsides near Syracuse, modern-day Sicily, around 400AD. By this time well into its period of fragmentation and eventual collapse, the Roman Empire (or to be more precise, those charged with preserving and upholding its resonance,) was apt to cling to any memento, however rudimentary, of its former greatness, indeed, of its very existence.. The manuscript was later placed alongside the works of renowned scholars and scribes such as Seneca, Cicero, Pliny and Marcus Aurelius himself in the Great Library of Alexandria, Egypt, miraculously surviving the inferno that engulfed the library in 740 AD, when it was torched by an invading Muslim army. Over 1,800 years since it was first composed, it has finally found a home at the John Rylands Library in Manchester, England, renowned for its collection of antique writings, many from the pen of ordinary people.

Contents aside, the astonishing aspect of these memoirs is the author herself, a former slave no less, who appears to have composed them during a period when such persons were generally presupposed to be illiterate. Having studied the manuscript at length, historians have concluded that the Emperor Marcus Aurelius, himself a man of letters of no mean ability and champion of the disadvantaged, may have encouraged his slaves to learn literacy for the sake of personal betterment. Slaves, given the opportunity to earn their freedom after years of devoted service, often required some marketable skill or trade to prepare them for life post-manumission; literacy would help to increase their opportunities tenfold. 

The most startling revelation of all, however, occurs at the memoirs' close, which ultimately I do not intend to disclose at this point. Once more, we may question the accuracies behind the words, but if we consider that these memoirs were apparently written without publication in mind and, what is more, by a former slave who was incidentally female,, then surely, gifted in mind, spirit and articulation yet socially disadvantaged in so many other ways, would she really have had anything to lose by revealing the truth?

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Thomas Blanchett PhD MPhil

Professor Of Classics, The University Of Manchester

I was born in Roman-occupied Britannia. My mind has blocked most of that terrible day, namely the day when the men in red cloaks and crested helmets took me away from my family, wrenched me panicked and screaming from the arms of my mother. I dimly recall a furore of some kind, an uprising, a terrible battle. My father, one of our village chieftains, had decided that it was time to take a stand once and for all against our Roman occupiers, an enterprise that was, in hindsight, doomed to failure. Our occupiers were too fast, too strong, too organised. I don't remember anything else. I was eight years old.

I do recall, with vivid and bitter clarity, the long and arduous journey crouched in the stinking bowels of a galleon, legs and feet chained together, quivering and petrified. Numerous other captives occupied this cramped space; all were silent, not least because of the scowling centurion posted permanently at the door. My knees were tucked up tightly into my chest, my long red hair, usually curly and abundant, had grown limpid and dull, thanks to a lack of washing. We were fed twice a day, usually a bowl of thin, watery soup and a hunk of bread, almost always stale. I'd never been so hungry in my life. After spending what felt like several weeks in this unenviable condition, the ship finally docked at the port city I later came to know as Ostia. From here, our feet unbound, we were loaded on to carts of various sizes. I still had no idea where I was, or where I would be taken. In fact, I was convinced we were still in Britannia. I wondered when my parents would arrive to take me home. For all I knew, I had been taken on a long and arduous boat journey as punishment for my so-called misdemeanours, which appeared to consist of nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time, after which I would be returned, grateful and smiling, to my parents. It wasn't to be. 

Everyone-that is, the milling soldiers and the drivers of the carts, seemed to be speaking in Latin, a language of which I had only the most rudimentary grasp at that time. The native tongue of our conquerors, and the language which we, the conquered, had been forced to acquire. One or two stood their ground, looking bored, while the others chattered, joked and milled. As we mounted the carts, the soldiers shouted instructions to the drivers, two words standing out amongst all others; "Roma" and Neopolis." I had heard of "Roma" over the years; it was a place spoken of in hushed, reverent tones among the crested legions skirting the barriers my village. I recall making my way home from play in the forest as dusk began to fall, passing a small group of centurions supping wine around a camp-fire, complaining about the temperamental Briton weather and their longing for the day of their return to t "majestic, sun-kissed Rome". The carts departed in different directions, some bound for Neopolis, which I took to be another city; the others, my cart included, bound for Rome and the beginnings of my new life.

It didn't take me long to work out that this place, wherever or whatever it was, certainly wasn't Britannia, or at least not the Britannia of my memory. Once out in the open countryside, I noticed that the surrounding landscapes were dramatically different; the hillsides and fields gleamed copper and gold beneath the sun's relentless heat, the pathways lined with olive groves and unusual flora. The city of Ostia itself was far grander than anything I'd ever seen. A kind-hearted woman offered me some water from a satchel, holding the vessel to my lips as I supped gratefully. I passed the satchel back to her; she offered it to the man sitting to her right. I wiped my mouth and tried to go to sleep, only to be crudely interrupted by one of the guards. "No sleeping allowed yet!" he hissed.

My young mind, hitherto having travelled no further than the borders of my village, was unprepared for the sheer, blinding magnificence of Rome, epicentre of the world. Approaching its imposing gates, bearing the inscription SPQR and crowned by a fearsome-looking eagle with wings outstretched, my eyes widened in shock and surprise. Simply put, the city was immense, and overwhelmingly so. Its buildings appeared carved from the very clouds themselves; majestic, white, stretching as far as the hilly horizons. Other structures were equally large but obviously much, much older, and somewhat run-down in comparison. All were embossed by grand reliefs and solemn inscriptions and were supported by smooth, fat pillars. Passing the rotund, gigantic structure I later came to know as the Flavian Ampitheatre, I gasped audibly, prompting the driver to hiss, "Silence!" Everywhere there were statues of important looking people; armoured Gods and rulers with fists clenched and swords held aloft in universal gestures of triumphalism, half-clad Goddesses radiating sensual power. The blazing sun penetrated my vision, causing white spots to dance before my eyes.

If Romes' buildings projected a sense of divinity and austerity, it was her people who helped to add the splashes of colour to her neutral palette. Some were elegantly attired, others shabbily. The clothing ranged from austere to gaudy to the downright outrageous. Shopkeepers and stall-holders shouted and haggled; men and women of innumerable nationalities gathered and gossiped; prostitutes reclined in doorways, proffering their fleshy wares. It seemed that the whole of humanity lived and laughed and loved within the parameters of this hot, bustling, reckless city.

Soon our little cart ground to a halt before a vast Forum bedecked with stalls and scurrying, noisy people. The driver dismounted and beckoned to us to get out. Almost on cue a second man appeared, brandishing a clinking bag of coins. The driver glanced at the bags' contents disapprovingly, tipped them into his palm, counted them and re-mounted the cart, grumbling all the while. He drove off without saying goodbye to us. The second man gestured at us to follow him. We were led to a large platform located at the other end of the Forum, I keeping my eyes fixed firmly on my feet to avoid the inquisitive stares of the curious throng. 

On the platform stood a rag-tag group of individuals shuffling nervously from one foot to the other, their eyes filled with shame. I scanned them all, looking for the distinctive flash of my mothers' red hair. There was, in fact, a red-haired female on the platform, but she couldn't have been a day older than fifteen; besides which, she resembled my mother in no other way whatsoever. A plump man with a beard, receding hair and a purple-and blue robe stood at a lectern, gesturing frantically, chattering away with rapid ease, his comments provoking occasional waves of laughter from the swarming mob at the foot of the stage. A tall, Herculean-looking man with long blond hair and a simple tunic was brought forward to the appreciative gasps of the female - and some of the male -audience members. The plump man began to describe the man's multifarious qualities, demonstrating size by flinging his arms wide, and great strength by flexing his bicep. The crowd responded wildly, whooping and hollering, the word "sesterces," the Roman system of coinage, figuring prominently. "What is this place? I whispered to the woman standing next to me, a fellow Briton. "I think its a slave market, my dear," she replied, without a trace of humour in her voice. Finally a "sale" was made, the plump "auctioneer" striking the top of the lectern with a tiny hammer, and the hulking blond man was led to greet his new owners, an elegantly-dressed, middle-aged couple.

We were instructed to mount the platform. The heat was stifling, and the crowd was becoming restless. I found myself positioned next to a tiny, mouselike girl about my age or possibly younger, with hair the colour of a sparrow's wing, round dark eyes resembling twin moons in her starved little face, and skin so pale it was almost transparent. She was frail, and quite explicitly 1terrified. Wondering whether she, like I, was a Briton, I spoke a few words to her, hoping to ease her fears. She simply stared at me in reply, uncomprehending, blinking her enormous eyes. The plump man beckoned to her to move forward, which she did, albeit tentatively....._very_ tentetively. The crowd audibly groaned, having registered her tininess and apparent frailty. The girl stared at her feet, then looked back at me in a sudden, desperate burst of communion. I thought I saw tears flicker in her large, dark eyes.

The auctioneer did his best to "sell" the girl, but the crowd respnded feebly, put off, apparently, by her physical frailty and naked display of fear. Shaking his head, the man abandoned his lectern and then, taking my wrist, led me to the front of the stage. The crowd resumed their bidding...I was taller and fuller-figured than the little mouse- girl and therefore, in their eyes, stronger. Eventually, a sale was made! Two for the price of one. Our purchaser, a tall man clad in a robe of pale yellow silk, with close-cropped dark hair and ears which seemed unduly prominent, ascended the steps to meet us, his newest acquisitions. Astonishing me by addressing me in Briton, my native tongue, he informed me that "you and your friend are extremely privileged little girls, indeed." I was curious to know why, but he didn't elaborate. Instead, he turned to the mouse-girl and addressed her in what appeared to be _her_ native language. She simply nodded in reply and bit her fingernail. I thought the man sounded very clever. "Where's she from?" I asked the man. "She didn't understand me when I spoke to her."_ "_Gallia" he replied, simply. I'd heard of Gaul, a land across the sea from Britannia. I was eager to ask him how he'd managed to learn so many languages, but my courage failed me at the last.

He asked us to follow him. We got into another cart, this one mercifully covered by an awning that helped shield us from the blazing heat. A little while later the cart pulled into the courtyard of the most auspicious-looking building I had yet encountered during my brief view of Rome. Jumping out of the cart, I took in the awe-inspiring view of the vast, sweeping steps leading up to its grand entrance. A tall, stony-faced man in a dark-crested helmet strode over.. Our large-eared purchaser immediately struck his chest with his fist and bowed his head, the crestedman responding in kind. Our purchaser spoke. "Ah, Quintus, good to see you, my friend. I don't suppose we could use the front entrance this time, could we?" he said, his voice twinkling mischievously. The dark-crested man, obviously a guard of some description, didn't even flinch. 

"The servant's entrance is at the rear of the building, something you should be aware of by now, Laurentius" he replied. 

"Good to see old Quintus hasn't lost his cutting sense of humour" grumbled the man, once the guard was out of earshot. 

We were led down a walled, winding staircase at the rear of the building, leading to the steamy enclaves of a large kitchen complex. A rangy, angular woman with coal- black hair piled atop her graceful head was waiting to greet us. "Laurentius!" she said warmly, embracing him with affection. "At last you've arrived! These two the new workers?" she enquired, acknowledging our presence with a cursory glance. Laurentius and the woman seemed somewhat fond of each other, I noticed. Her sharp eyes analysed our presence, her smile faltering a little as she registered the little Gaul girl's birdlike proportions. "Not so sure about this one, Laurentius. She seems a little frail and, in my opinion, ill. It's not easy down here, you know..." The little Gaul girl bit her lip and shifted nervously.

"She'll grow. All she needs is some solid Roman food and a few months' graft and she'll be fine. You do fuss so, Trincula." he replied. "In any case, I got them both, including the Briton, for the price of one."

"Good. I can tell this one's strong," she said, coming over to me. "Goodness me, look at all that hair! We'll have to check you for lice, my dear..." she said, her voice trailing off as Laurentius turned to leave.

"Surely you don't have to leave yet, Laurentius?" she said, her disappointment barely concealed. 

"Got to finish my accounts, Trincula. I'll be here next week, same time, same place" He shrugged and left. The woman sighed and turned to us.

"Ah well, to business. You two might not be aware of this yet, or indeed appreciate it, but you are extremely privileged young ladies. You are standing in the kitchens of the Imperial Palace, residence of the Emperor himself. We have to maintain the highest standards here, and both of you will be instrumental in upholding them. I hope..." she murmured, glancing at the Gaul.

"You will work here in a domestic capacity, and we expect nothing less than exemplary performance and behaviour from both of you. Your hands will be cracked and sore, your limbs will ache all over, you'll never get a good nights' sleep again, but you will be consoled by the knowledge that your toil is for the glory of the Emperor and of the Empire itself." I got the distinct impression that she loved the sound of her own voice.

"And then, one day," she went on, "If you work hard, then your freedom will be yours for the taking. "Although," she continued, descending her verbal Mount Olympus, "I wouldn't bet on it if I were you. I've been here for nigh-on twenty years, since I was a nipper, and I'm still no closer to being manumitted. Ah well, such is life. From now on, both of you will speak in Latin only. We have quite a few Britons and Gauls here, most of them are fluent now, they will instruct you where necessary. Tell me, what are your names? We will have to change them..."

Thereafter, I was known as Vinca, and the little Gaul, whose real name was unpronouncable to me (and to Trincula-it amused me to hear her try to repeat it) was subsequently renamed Hestia. She would become one of my closest friends over the next ten years. Incidentally, the name "Vinca" means "winner," It's a name which carries more than its fair share of irony, since I lost everything, namely my freedom and any chance of ever being returned to my parents, the day I received it. 


	2. Chapter Two

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Chapter Two

I was put to work in the kitchens, scrubbing floors, scouring pots, carrying heavy buckets of water from the well in the Palace courtyard. The work was arduous and backbreaking. Each night I collapsed onto the mattress in my tiny sleeping alcove, aching all over from the day's exertions, calluses forming on my hands. My efforts must have pleased Trincula, the kitchen supervisor, for soon I was "promoted" to what we dutifully termed "upstairs tasks." This meant that I, along with the other "upstairs workers," would be responsible for the cleaning and maintenance of the vast rooms, corridors and walkways of the Imperial Palace. For the first time I was truly terrified, for this meant I would be interacting directly with the Imperial Family themselves. I was afraid to leave even the tiniest speck of dust, of accidentally breaking a statue, bust or vase. I simply buried my fears and got on with the tasks laid out before me. It was all I could do.

I haven't yet described the Imperial Family, so I will do so now. There was the Emperor himself, snowy-haired and elderly; once a strong and active man, he had difficulties with his mobility nowadays. His name was Marcus Aurelius; we had to address him as "Sire." He seemed pleasant enough; he would spend most of his spare time writing at his desk in the comforting enclosure of his chambers. Sometimes I would be scuttling around, duster in hand, or kneeling on the floor of his chambers, darning a robe, as he wrote. It was here that the numerous tracts, philosophical musings, essays and poetry that formed a crucial part of his life's work took shape. He never spoke harshly to me; in fact, he hardly ever spoke to me at all, except to ask me to fetch him another cup of warm tea, place a fresh log on the fire, or to compliment me on a job well done. He was a very gracious man, and I thought him a fine Emperor.

There was also Lucilla, his daughter and eldest child, her husband Verus, and their two-year-old son Lucius. Lucilla was exquisite, tall and slender like the branch of a willow-tree, with abundant honey-coloured hair, wide-set green eyes and an intelligent brow. Her husband was a fine, strong-featured man with curly blond hair. They seemed happy together, although I once overheard a conversation between Trincula and Portia, the head cook, casting doubts on this observation...

"The Lady looked a little peaky this morning when I gave her breakfast." mused Trincula.

"That wouldn't surprise me in the least. She hasn't been really happy for a long time, not since you-know-who married his childhood sweetheart. Hmpf!" Portia's mouth formed a tight line, and she turned her attention to the pot on the stove, stirring its contents vigorously.

"Oh come on Portia. Any fool can see that she adores Verus...having said that, she _did_ marry him rather quickly, not long after _he_ flew the coop...You don't think she married Verus on the rebound, do you?

"I'm saying nothing " Portia muttered. "You were the one who found that love poem to Centurion Maximus on her dresser, so work it out for yourself..."

"Hmm, now that you mention it...Vinca? Could you fetch us some more pots please?"

The Emperor also had a young son, Commodus, whom I had never seen. He was living at the family's country villa in Etruria under the dutiful care of nurses and tutors. He was scheduled to return soon to the Palace, and so I was anxious to meet him.

One morning I was rushing along a corridor, bearing a heavy water bucket. My priority that day was to scrub the floors outside the Imperial Chambers. I had to move swiftly because, as I said, the bucket was rather cumbersome, and I feared I would drop it before reaching my destination. Rounding a corner, I promptly collided with a boy about my age, who was, until that moment, swinging a wooden sword in the middle of the corridor. The shock of impact caused me to drop the bucket, water sloshing all over his feet and mine.

"You great, clumsy fool!" he screamed. I could only blink in reply, taken aback by the vehemence of his words. I straightened, trying to get a proper look at this little tornado. He continued his tirade against me. "Are all slaves as careless and ignorant as you?" He glared at me, his fierce little face contorted with rage, as though trying to goad me into responding in kind.

"I-I'm sorry..." I exclaimed, though it emerged a thin and futile whine. The boy was small for his age, a fingers-breadth shorter than I in those days. His hair was dark, wavy, a little unkempt, his skin alabaster-pale; but it was his eyes that astounded me the most. They were the colour of stormy teal, a luminescent turquoise-green, and filled with strange lights and shadows. I can say in all honesty that I have never encountered their equal, before or since. Over them lay a pair of haughty black brows, like the outstretched wings of a raven poised to strike. The upper lip of his insolent mouth bore a strange scar, adding an interesting dimension to his features, like a sudden flash of gold in marble. He was the most hauntingly beautiful young man I had ever seen.

I thought he was the son of a Senator, or of one of the Emperor's numerous guests. Whoever he was, I thought, he clearly needed a lesson or two in manners; despite him being my superior. Then a thickset man appeared in a doorway nearby. "Come, Master Commodus," he said. "It is time for your grammar lesson."

The boy spun round to face the man. "Oh Castillus, do I _have_ to?" he whined.

"Your father will be displeased if you refuse to attend, Sire," the man replied.

Smashing his sword against the wall in temper, the mercurial youth turned on his heel and stalked after the man, pausing in the doorway to stick out his tongue at me.

That was my first encounter with the young man who, once grown to manhood, would change my life forever.

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A week later, I overheard a second conversation between Trincula and Portia. This is how it went:

"I tell you, Trincula, he's turning into a right nasty little so-and-so! I assure you, I'd give him a right good hiding if he were one of mine! Doesn't his father ever bother to check him?"

"His father's hardly ever around to check him," sighed Trincula. "Be fair, Portia, he took it bad when his brother passed away, and his mother not long afterwards. It's no wonder he's been...difficult..."

They were discussing Commodus, who had allegedly flung a drink in the face of Cleandrus, a young male servant, claiming he had asked for something else. (He hadn't.) Later that day, he'd apparently "seen fit" to kick poor little Hestia hard on the shin after she'd failed to spot and remove a discarded pear core under his bed. Poor Hestia was perched on a stool in floods of tears as Cleandrus attended to her injured leg, both of them commiserating about their less-than-fortunate encounters with the heir to the throne. I said nothing, but was fully aware of Commodus' seemingly inexplicable bouts of cruelty, having been subject to them myself. He was horrible to me. He was horrible to _everyone._ He was a bully and, like all bullies, a quivering coward protected only by the name and status afforded him. Over the next ten years we came to dread his visits to the Imperial Palace. All of us felt a deep, profound sense of relief whenever he boarded his chariot to return to his Etrurian villa. I had the distinct impression his family was relieved too, his father in particular.


	3. Chapter Three

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Chapter Three

The years passed. By this time I had settled into my role in the Palace, and life was relatively quiet save for Commodus' infrequent visits, likened to a sudden season of temperamental weather, tearing up everything in its' path, then disappearing as abruptly as it came, leaving everyone to pick up the pieces. The domestic staff was on tenterhooks from the day of his arrival to the day of his departure. 

The notion of rising from my bed at the crack of dawn after an uncomfortable night spent tossing and turning on a lumpy mattress, washing and dressing quickly before taking a hasty breakfast of bread and preserved plums and running down to the kitchens to commence the day's work, slowly became routine. The Empire had been encountering difficulties from the barbarian tribes of Germainia for some time, and so the Emperor spent long periods away from the Palace with the legions, in an attempt to boost their ebbing morale. The pointlessness of it all was a favourite topic among the kitchen staff; Germania had always been a troublesome outpost, yielding little more than continuous antagonism from its inhabitants against the Empire that skirted its rugged borders. Some people suggested that it be best left alone. It wasn't exactly as if the barbarians were ever going to come streaming over the Palatine Hill, was it? But Roman "pride" was at stake; its clarion call, the taming of so-called "barbarism," quelled by the mighty hand of civilisation and "learnedness," was showing distinct cracks for perhaps the first time in its history. 

Sadly, Lucilla's husband, Verus, passed away from a rare illness two-and-a-half years after I arrived at the Palace. Lucilla had always struck me as resourceful and strong, so after her mourning period she had resumed her official duties with determination, focussing her energies towards bringing up her boy, Lucius, in fine style. Her resilience provoked a wave of admiration from me, as did her kindness. She had recently made Hestia one of her personal dressers after noticing the way Commodus bullied her, thus ensuring the Gaul girl encountered him as little as possible whenever he was in residence at the Palace. Little Hestia wasn't the best of workers, being small, frail and quick to burst into tears at the slightest provocation; but she was diligent, a tryer, and Lucilla recognised this, taking her under her protective wing. The young Cypriot male servant, Cleandrus, also felt a great deal of affection for Hestia. Whenever she was distressed he would appear, smiling warmly, bearing two goblets of hot fruit cup, and would tell her amusing stories to help lift her spirits. As the pair of them grew to adulthood, I noticed the slowly burgeoning relationship between them. Cleandrus clearly adored her, and Hestia, in return, seemed shyly flattered by his interest. When I was sixteen years old, Cleandrus confided in me that he would like to marry Hestia one day, "when we are free," and take her back to his family's farm on the Greek island of Cyprus.

I hadn't given the possibility of imminent freedom much thought, immersed as I was in daily domestic enterprise; but after this inspiring conversation with the young Cypriot, I began to think seriously about my freedom and what I could do with my life having attained it. I could clean, cook and sew...I loved the feel of rich materials against my fingers as I made the Imperial beds or helped the Emperor, Commodus, or Lucilla to dress. I could read and write a little. My arithmetic was good. I prided myself on my organisational skills. I could open a clothing store! I could import fine silks and brocades from Syria, the Orient, Egypt and Thrace, darning everything by hand...after all, having worked in the Imperial Palace, I could profess, with all sincerity, experience at the highest conceivable level. Then reality would descend, gloomy and limiting, and I would realise that I would have to have money in order to embark realistically on such a project. Perhaps if I married...then again, there were no guarantees I would ever find a husband, let alone one with the requisite financial clout allowing me to open a shop. To begin with, I would have to work for somebody else. My dream, glittering with possibility, flared once more, albeit briefly.

Sometimes, however, the overwhelming drudgery of my everyday predicament made dreaming impossible. This was made uncomfortably clear to me on one midsummer afternoon in particular, a few days after my seventeenth birthday. 

I was kneeling on the floor of Commodus' private chamber, darning one of his fine robes. He had inadvertently stepped on it returning from breakfast with his father, sister and nephew, tearing the hem, and I had been summoned swiftly to repair it. The Heir to the Empire was reclining behind his desk, idly leafing through scrolls, pausing to cast the occasional hostile look in my direction as I sewed. My eyes caught his, as I looked up, curious.

"Stop staring at me, slave. Get on with your work," he snapped. "Yes, Sire," I replied, keeping my voice neutral. I lowered my head and resumed stitching. In those days he was constantly trying to provoke a reaction from me, but I would not yield to his demands. _I'll never let you see my cry, _I thought._ Never._

When I had finished, I held the robe before me, inspecting it. Commodus couldn't abide even the slightest imperfection, so for this reason I was extra careful in reviewing my handiwork. Satisfied, I stood, walking over to present the robe to him for approval. As I did so, he looked up once more, scowl intact.

"I didn't _tell_ you to stand, slave! Get back on your knees until I say other wise!" As I did so, I noticed the unmistakable twitch of a self-satisfied smile settle over his features. _You smug, arrogant bastard, I_ thought. Clearing his throat, the young buffoon turned his attentions back to his scrolls. He plucked an apple from the dish on his desk and took a hefty bite, obviously very pleased with himself. Seething inside, I consoled myself with thoughts of Commodus greeting his subjects clad in a robe which, unknown to him, had a dreadful stain on the back. The sound of sniggering Senators and Praetorians followed him as he haughtily paraded, blissfully unaware of his public humiliation. The thought brought a smile to my face, and, just my luck, he noticed. Slamming the apple down on the desk with resounding force, he stood, his face apoplectic with rage.

"How_ DARE _you laugh at me, slave!" he screamed. Stalking over, he unleashed a further verbal torrent in my direction. "Stand up at once, you insolent wretch, or I swear I...I'll have you _thrashed!_ That's right, thrashed to within an inch of your pathetic, worthless life!" He was trembling, but was obviously in no mood for further provocation, so I stood and bowed my head, as was the custom. 

"Please accept my humble apologies, Sire. I was not smiling at you. Its just...somebody in the kitchens told a joke today, I recalled it just at that moment, it was very funny..."

"_Silence!_" he yelled, snatching the robe from my hands with such brute force I feared he would tear it. He cocked his head, inspecting it with narrowed eyes. Then he did the most peculiar thing. Moving over to his desk, he picked up a blade, then returned to stand before me, holding up the robe. With a single deft movement he cut the stitches I had made. He smiled, his eyes gleaming with malice.

"Oh, what a shame!" he sneered, his tone dripping sarcasm. "Your stitches are all undone! Do you really expect me to greet my public wearing this piece of rag? _DO YOU?_" I jumped inwardly at the sudden raised tone of his voice. 

"No, Sire" I whispered, trying not to flinch, instead keeping my gaze level with his.

"Your work is shoddy, slave. Do it again." he muttered, thrusting the robe at me. I stared at him, defiant and self-contained. A muscle jumped in his cheek. His lips twitched. _For some reason, I unnerved him!_

"What's going on, Commodus?" enquired a female voice behind me, breaking the tension that had suddenly grown between us. I turned and there was Lucilla, emerging from behind a pillar. How long had she been there? I was curious to know, if a little fearful.

Commodus attempted a warm, appeasing smile. "Th-this impudent girl! I dared to criticise her stitching, so she tore this robe! Right in front of my very eyes! I honestly don't know where Father finds them, I mean..."

"Brother, I saw everything." Lucilla sighed, as though resigned to this situation. "Vinca did not tear the robe. You did, with your blade. I witnessed every second of your little exchange, so please do not try to insult my intelligence by suggesting otherwise." I couldn't believe my ears. The Emperor's daughter, speaking in my defence! Commodus visibly reeled, his expression defeated, struggling to harness his shattered pride before his sister. Unabated, Lucilla continued. "And another thing. Many times I have trusted Vinca with the repair and maintenance of my robes, and I have always found her handiwork to be most immaculate. I would say that she is one of the finest handmaidens this Palace has to offer. So excuse me Brother, if your accusations fail to convince me." She folded her arms and cocked a quizzical eyebrow, as if defying him to reply.

"B-but sister, she ...she_ laughed_ at me! Such.... insolence! It's obvious she hates me! Just wait till I tell Father. After all, he's more likely to believe the word of his heir than that of some barbarian ignoramus from some Gods-forsaken outpost! I'll..." Lucilla cut him off. 

"Yes brother, I am aware that you are indeed heir to the throne, but you forget that I am the elder sibling, and am therefore confident that my word, not yours, will win the day. So go ahead Commodus, do your worst. We'll see whom Father believes. And if Vinca _did_ "laugh" at you, which I sincerely doubt, then it was not without good reason." She turned to me. "Give me the robe, Vinca. I will give it to Hestia to stitch instead. She has relatively little to do this afternoon, and..."

"Oh, surely, sister, not that ham-fisted fool from Gaul!" He was whining now, his pride in tatters.

"It's your own fault Commodus. And while we are on the subject, I'd appreciate it if you refrained from bad-mouthing my personal staff in my presence. Hestia is a fine and loyal worker. Come, Vinca... I will send you on an errand to the Forum instead." 

"Yes, my Lady," I replied, bowing my head and following her out of the room.

I couldn't resist sneaking a cursory look back at the heir to the throne as I left. He glared after me, but his expression was impossible to read. It was only years later that I recognised the look...the look acknowledging that he would never break me, despite his best efforts. It was a similar expression to the one he wore whenever he spoke of the mysterious, defiant gladiator and former General he despised with a passion, a couple of years later. 

A week or so passed by. Commodus kept a low profile, staying in his quarters, occasionally venturing out into the courtyard for exercise. One morning I was carrying a breakfast tray to Lucilla's quarters when a hand shot out of nowhere, grabbing me roughly. It was Commodus. He leaned close, hissing in my ear; "you may have succeeded in making me look a fool in front of my sister last week, but next time you won't be so fortunate! So just remember this, Vinca. I'll be keeping close tabs on you..." I turned to look at him. He stared back with narrowed eyes, and then he suddenly lost interest. "Now be off with you!" he snarled, giving me a little push towards the corridor. Mercifully, I didn't drop the tray.

Commodus never got the chance to exact his idea of "revenge," as he no doubt thought of it. A couple of weeks later, he departed for a school of swordsmanship on the Caelian Hill. I didn't see him again for almost two years, until the day he returned, "triumphant," from Germania , this time wielding all the power in the world at his fingertips.


	4. Memoirs Of Vinca Chapter Four

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Chapter Four

Two years went by. Sadly, the Emperor Marcus Aurelius, by this time extremely frail, passed on while in Germania with the legions, meaning Commodus, his ill-tempered, reckless progeny, was now poised to ascend the throne. Inevitably, this meant that he would be returning to the Palace to live on a full-time basis, a prospect I truly didn't savour. His threatening missive of two years previous had gnawed at my insides ever since, and if I had been unable to forget it, then it was unlikely that he had either. As I had discovered to my peril the day he crudely grabbed my arm in the corridor and hissed his proposed "revenge" in my ear, Commodus hated to "lose." Now, gifted with absolute power at his reckoning, not even Lucilla could protect me. I was certain I'd be booted out of the Palace's employ...or worse...soon. My stomach heaved with anxiety each time I contemplated the imminent return of the Young Buffoon. I began to seriously entertain the thought of running away, knowing in my heart that a eighteen year old girl would stand little chance against his Praetorian lackeys, who had in recent weeks become more conspicuous ever since the news of Commodus' ascension arrived. And in any case, where could I go? I'd probably never see Britannia again; I had no money and scant prospect of earning any. I would be forced to live undercover for the rest of my life, assuming I even got as far as the city walls before being intercepted by Praetorians or Imperial spies. In spite of all this, I would spend successive nights awake in the sleeping alcove, planning my escape as Hestia snored lightly beside me 

I have to admit my plans were rather sketchy and dependent on the mercies of the Gods. I could sneak out of the palace in a laundry basket, hidden beneath piles of old, musty-smelling sheets. Having no money to speak of, I'd be forced to entertain the possibility of selling my body once out on the streets of Rome. I hated the idea on principle, but the notion of forfeiting my virginity in such questionable and unpleasant circumstances seemed infinitely preferable to anything Commodus would have in store for me. Besides, the only other option was theft, and I couldn't bring myself to do that.

I'd purchase passage along the Tiber to Ostia, ensconcing myself on a boat bound for Sicily, Sardinia or Caprae, possibly even Carthage or the Greek Islands, funds permitting. I'd have to change my name, darken my red hair, seek work with a family of patrician status but modest means, preferably without connection to the Imperial Family. Then the whole idea would strike me as ludicrous, what with Praetorians sniffing around every corner, even in the sodden depths of laundry baskets. I would sigh and try to go to sleep, usually without success.

The day Commodus re-entered Rome "triumphant," resplendent in the ubiquitous laurel-leaf crown and flowing robes of an Emperor, followed by a triumphal procession of Praetorian "yes-men" (as Portia caustically termed them), saw me standing on the Palace steps, paralysed with fear inside. One would never have assumed this from my stance and expression, which remained immobile, giving no hint of my internal trauma. The prescence was required of all the domestic staff, including Trincula, Hestia, Cleandrus, Portia, young Lucius' tutor Castillus (who had also tutored Commodus as a boy) and myself. Several Senators and Consuls of note were also present; influential men such as Gracchus, Falco, Gaius and Albinus, in addition to the consuls Sulla and Septimus Severus, together with Pertinax, the city prefect. Eleven-year-old Lucius stood before them, eagerly anticipating the return of his mother. We were instructed to bow gracefully, smiles intact, as he-who-had-to-be-obeyed at-all-costs swept haughtily up the Palace steps. 

"He's taking enough flaming' time...my bladder can't wait for no one, plebeian OR Emperor" Portia grumbled through gritted teeth, forced smile forming a facetious rectangle as she swayed in discomfort. Trincula smiled slyly. "You should have gone before, sweetheart," she replied, winking at us. At that moment a pair of local children, bedecked in garlands of peonies and multi-hued silks, ran forward to present the new Emperor and Lucilla with lavish clusters of flowers. I surmised that this gesture was intended to represent the Emperor's so- called "bond" with the common people... a shrewd political move, I thought. The children were understandably awe-struck and thrilled; after all, it isn't every day you get to greet the Emperor on his homecoming. However, without getting too caustic, their delight obviously had a lot to do with the fact that they'd never witnessed the sweet-natured recipient of their tributes throwing a tantrum, kicking a servant or slashing a robe out of sheer, pig-headed spite. So much for the Emperor's bond with the "common people..." 

Commodus greeted the Senators and Consuls gathered at the top of the steps, sweeping past the domestics, acknowledging our presence with little more than a cursory nod. I didn't move, even my smile didn't quiver, but while Portia's insides were creased from a full bladder, mine were creased with fear.

During the initial month of his reign, Commodus kept busy with official duties, paperwork of various description, holding court in the Senate. Kitchen gossips kept us reliably informed of the latest twists and turns, but I felt that things were a little TOO quiet for my own personal comfort. Informed of the Emperor's plans to reopen the Flavian Ampitheatre by staging a series of Games, ostensiably to honour his father, Portia was on a roll. "Hmpf!" she snorted, comically brandishing a wooden spoon (with a little too much innate menace, I thought; had Commodus been present, I wouldn't have bet against her giving him a good swipe with it.) "Games to honour himself, more like! His father, may he rest in peace, didn't want anything to do with them gladiator games, and I for one understood him! Where's the money coming from to fund this obscenity, I'd like to ask him that! It's disgusting when some poor folks don't have anything to eat! 

***************************************************************************************

I took my seat in the Imperial enclosure of the Flavian Amphitheatre's hot, bristling environs. It was the second week of the Games, and the tension, like a monstrous, beating heart, was palpable, inflaming the heaving ellipse of humanity who chattered excitedly within the arena; outside, the mob squalled like angry children over the remaining few tickets. I knew I would find no pleasure from the dreadful spectacles soon to be unleashed. Descending from his seat, Commodus glanced over his feverish subjects, gesturing as only a God would, revelling in the swelling chant of "CAESAR! CAESAR!" Lucilla, hands twisting in her lap, had been strangely quiet of late. I had no doubts whatsoever that this had everything to do with her brother's sudden ascent to power. Caution had sapped her spirit; she had Lucius' welfare at heart, as any good mother would. Her son was there too, peering over the balcony, eyes wide with curiosity.

A stout man with rouged cheeks and a ridiculous-looking wig - the Master of Ceremonies, presumably - entered the arena to a thunderous herald of African drums. Gesturing for silence, he began to speak in singsong fashion, his voice rising with pomposity, falling with dramatic solemnity, stirring the braying mob. The crowd broke out in scornful laughter as he introduced a rag-tag group of gladiators positioned in the arena's centre as the "Barbarian Hoard;" a mocking allusion to the great Carthaginian general Hannibal's defeated armies of antiquity.

"And now," he continued, his voice rising several notches, Caesar is proud to give you...THE LEGIONNAIRES OF SCIPIO AFRICANUS!"

Fifty thousand pairs of eyes shifted towards the enormous, forbidding gates at the south side of the arena, which swung open with a flourish to the tumultuous sound of chariots and horses, their passengers - mostly men, with a few women added provocatively to the mix - bedecked in golden breastplates and wielding fearsome weaponry. Much as I wanted to, I couldn't tear my eyes away from the terrible carnage being re-enacted before me. Chillingly, it reminded me of my last day in Britannia, the uprising, the soldiers, the brutality. Equally disturbing was the fact that the mob grew more delirious with every second, as swords flashed and blood spurted from gaping wounds. They cheered, roared, stamped their feet. Hestia, sitting to my right, turned to me. "Vinca...I feel sick...she said. Cleandrus surreptitiously passed her a small bag in which to vomit. Luckily, no one saw her , except me.

Drusus, Commodus' barber, who was sitting to my left, chuckled. "I take it this isn't your idea of entertainment, Vinca," he exclaimed.

"You're right" I replied, returning his amiable gaze through narrowed eyes. "It's a shameful waste of life, in my opinion...and public funds." I righteously folded my arms and settled back in my seat.

"But just look at the skill. There's some heavy-duty swordsmanship taking place down there. Look at that fellow," Drusus said, indicating one of the "Barbarians" below, a man sitting astride a horse and wearing a helmet partially obscuring his face. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear he's had training in the military. Just watch how he commands the situation!" Indeed, this "Barbarian" had something of a ringleader's air about him, commanding his ragged and hastily assembled "troops" with an almost military precision. The battle drew to a close, the crowd roaring its approval, much of it directed at this mysterious leader of the Hoards. By some strange historical twist, the "Barbarians" had triumphed!

The rouged and bewigged Master Of Ceremonies leaned over Commodus, whispering in his ear. Commodus stood and swept down into the arena, accompanied by a dark-crested wave of Praetorians. The crowd collectively held its' breath. Was the Emperor displeased for some reason? Curious, I craned my neck to get a better view of the situation.

Unfortunately, I couldn't hear a thing, so I can only describe what I saw. Commodus strolled over to the man, beckoning him with his hand to rise. Then Lucius, also keen to meet this gladiator, ran up to join his uncle. Connodus addressed the man who, in an unprecedented gesture of defiance, turned his back on the Emperor! Half the crowd gasped as one, the remaining half too astonished to respond in any way whatsoever. Hestia trembled on the edge of her seat, visibly sweating, mouth wide open with disbelief.

"Oh my!" she gasped. "He'll really be in trouble now!"

"Hush a moment!" I snapped. "I want to know what's going on!"

That wasn't all. The gladiator, head bowed, removed his helmet and turned to face down the Emperor, who reeled visibly as the man took slow, menacing steps towards him. This was unbelievable! A gladiator, a humble slave no less, challenging the Emperor, the most powerful man in our known world, in such an imprudent, yet breathtaking, manner! Needless to say, his stance endered him still further to the mob as their voices rose in unison, chanting "LIVE! LIVE!" I stole a glance at Lucilla, who had suddenly become animated, her eyes shining and, dare I say it, hopeful...it was patently obvious that this enigmatic warrior had stolen her heart, as well as the crowd's. Commodus glanced around the arena in desperation; his expression cauterised, trapped between two fires. After what seemed like several lifetimes, he finally conceded the battle and gave the thumbs-up signal, as if this gesture was the most painful thing in the world to do.

For several days thereafter there was no looking at Coomodus. He barricaded himself in his quarters, emerging only to hurl the occasional invective in the direction of his personal staff. His meals were returned untouched. On the rare instances he deigned to "grace" us with his presence, his expression spoke volumes; hurt, disbelief, defeat, as if he had been struck hard and was only now beginning to register the blow. The kitchens swarmed with gossip; most of it surrounding this enigmatic gladiator whom had, for one rare and blinding moment, rendered the Emperor helpless before his people. Then one evening, something extraordinary happened.

It was Cleandrus' job to serve a goblet of hot wine to Commodus before he retired for the night. On this particular evening, however, Cleandrus had injured his foot after dropping a heavy vase on it, and was therefore prevented from climbing stairs as he waited for it to heal. With Cleandrus out of action for a while, I was duly summoned to perform the task instead. Needless to say, I did not relish the prospect of my first real interaction with the Emperor since our "disagreement" of two years previous. The walk to the Imperial Chambers felt like the longest of my life; the goblet trembled in my jittering grasp. Reaching the vast doors of Commodus' quarters, I came to a halt before Quintus, the stony-faced head of the Praetorian Guard.

"I have brought the Emperor's wine, Sire" I said my head bowed in deference.

"You may go in, slave" Unsmiling, Quintus took a key from his pouch and unlocked the door, bidding me enter.

Quintus politely closed the door behind me. Tiptoeing carefully through the vast suite of rooms, Commodus was nowhere to be seen. "S-Sire?" I enquired; part of me hoping he wasn't there. Then I saw him.

He was sitting on a window ledge, shadowlike, head in his hands, shoulders heaving. He was sobbing.

"Sire? Are you feeling well?"

Rousing himself, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his robe, he looked up at me. "Oh, it's _you,_" he spat, the contempt in his voice alive and present. "Where's that fool Cleandrus?"

"He has injured his foot today Sire, but it will heal...I've been asked to..."

"Go away"

"Sire? But I've..."

"_I said, GO AWAY!"_

I bowed and turned to leave. 

"Wait!" Commodus declared. I halted and turned back to face him.

"Slave, bring me the wine."

"Yes, Sire" Tentatively, I carried the goblet over to him, placing my hand over the rim of the goblet to prevent spillage. He took it from me, skewing me with his gaze, a chilly smile twitching on his lips.

"Taste it first," he commanded.

At that point my imagination began to run riot; my worst fears rose to the surface. What if Commodus had deliberately "set up" this "scenario" to have me poisoned, making the foul deed look like a foiled assassination attempt? I wouldn't have put it past him. Was this his "revenge?" Was this what he'd been waiting to do for two years?

Reluctantly, I lifted the goblet to my lips. I took a deep breath and drank deeply, waiting for paralysis to take hold of my form, dragging me down into sleep. It never came. Commodus started to giggle, the laughter tinged with mild hysteria. He removed the goblet from my hand. Suppressed rage flared within me as I realised he'd enjoyed torturing me, but I didn't flinch.

"You see, you stupid girl," he said, pausing to take a long swig himself, "your Emperor is ALWAYS right, as you will come to appreciate. In fact, he is right even when he is wrong. It is your duty to never, ever question his word." As he spoke, he encircled me like a bird of prey, prowling, poised to strike. Or perhaps that was what he wanted me to think. My eyes narrowed. Drawing to a halt behind me, he leaned forwards to whisper in my ear. "Seeing as we are stuck together, you and I, we will have to learn to trust one another. That was Lesson One. Lesson Two will be when I see fit..." He walked away. Then he bent over, arms clasped tightly round his waist and collapsed in racking sobs, the forces holding him together falling apart and dissipating, like the contents of Pandora's box.

True, I despised him for what he had just subjected me to. However, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy at his sudden, naked display of pain. His tears seemed to come from somewhere deep and wounded, and they affected me, in spite of everything. It was obvious all was "not right" with him... Portia had on more than one occasion remarked on how he seemed "touched in the head." And although Portia's observation was primarily a derogatory one, I, in contrast, felt for him.

"Sire...would you like me to fetch someone? The Lady? Quintus? A physician? Could I..."

He clutched at my hand like a drowning man. He gazed up at me, beautiful eyes glinting and tear-racked. "Slave...don't leave...everybody leaves...stay here. Everyone goes away..." Without a word; I helped him up and put him to bed.

I stayed with him awhile, holding him until he fell asleep. He did not touch me, or indeed speak to me, nor I did him. It wasn't necessary. That night heralded the sea-change in our relationship with each other, forged in unbroken, silent intimacy, planting the seed of our eventual friendship. 


	5. Chapter Five

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Chapter Five

The following morning saw me sweeping the tiles of the Palace courtyard. The light was clear and pure; the soft breeze bore the ever-so-slight hint of a chill. Then a voice behind me stirred me into dropping my brush and I whipped round quickly to behold the voices' source. 

"Sla...Vinca?" 

There stood Commodus, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, rubbing the tops of his arms as if to warm them. It was only the second time he'd bothered to use my first name; the preceding incident was the day he'd accosted me in the corridor almost two years before. On that particular occasion he'd been far too angry to pay attention to simple matters of address. Having said that, Lucilla, the old Emperor, and Lucius had always professed the good grace to use my name. Bowing as required, I spoke.

"Good morning, Sire. What can I do for you?"

Commodus smiled shyly and glanced behind him, then turned back to meet my gaze.

"I-I have come out to see how you are doing..." he stammered. He fidgeted slightly, scratched the end of his nose, and took a deep breath. "In truth, Vinca, I wanted.... I wanted to thank you for... taking care of me last night, when I...when I was ill..."

Now this_ was_ a first! The Emperor Commodus, stooping to actually_ thank_ a slave; and more to the point, one he didn't seem particularly enamoured of until now! Then my cynical inner self lunged forth, gesturing frantically. What on earth could his motive be? Was it fair to think in these terms? Did he even _have_ a motive?

I bowed. "I am most honoured, Sire. I trust that you are well" Picking up my brush, I resumed my work.

"Vinca, please put down the brush and walk with me awhile"

Puzzled, and with more than a little caution, I carefully placed the brush on the ground. Depressingly familiar with his irascibility and swift, unprovoked mood-changes, I grudgingly acknowledged that this sudden display of amiability could well be a precursor to something far more hostile in intent. Still, he _was_ Emperor, and to disobey him would be akin to diving headlong into a vat of boiling water.

"I'd simply like to talk to you, Vinca. Get to know you a little better. I am aware that we have had our ...differences of opinion, shall we say, in the past; but I am eager to build good relations with all my members of staff. I have great plans for the Empire, Vinca, and I need a loyal and productive workforce behind me if I am ever to achieve my goals." 

He peered at the ground as he spoke, chewing a manicured fingernail, a gesture betraying more than a smidgeon of self-doubt. 

We strolled at a leisurely pace in mutual silence for several minutes. He broke it first.

"Tell me about Britannia" he said. "You were born there, were you not?"

"Yes Sire, I was"

"I hear it is a terribly cold and desolate place"

"Sire, it was my birth land. I acclimatised in the cradle."

"Is it an ugly place?"

"It depends on how one's eye is trained, Sire. Parts are indeed beautiful, green and lush. There are birds, and streams, and hills...not great mountains like the mighty Alpine peaks, Sire, but they have a beauty of their own. The weather is temperamental."

"Do you miss it?"

"I can barely recall it, Sire" This wasn't strictly true.

"Of course. You were take...you _left_ there as a young girl. How terribly ignorant of me. I apologise; it must have been a difficult experience for you." Reaching out, he touched my shoulder.

"Even the most...the most beautiful places on earth can seem cold and desolate when one is lonely." he suddenly said, and I had the strangest feeling that he was talking about himself.

He stopped and spun round to face me. "You acclimatised in the cradle, Vinca. That means you are strong." He narrowed his eyes, his gaze intensifying, beckoning a reply.

"Please excuse my ignorance, Sire, but I don't understand."

"You and I, we...are both more alike that you realise. You were born strong; I, on the other hand, was not. Yet we have both had to fight for respect in our own ways."

"But I've never fought for anything, Sire. I simply get on with things, letting life take care of itself. In many ways I am fortunate; I have a mattress on which to lie, a roof over my head...and indeed, what a roof! I have three meals a day and clean water to drink. Many people don't have even that."

"Oh, but you have fought, Vinca...in a way, you are as tough as the mightiest gladiator ever to set foot in the Flavian Ampitheatre. You were taken from your family against your will then enslaved by your captors. You may never see your family again, yet you have endured. Every single day is a battle for you, yet you withstand it without complaint, and I find that intriguing. I was born into privilege, although my upbringing was far from happy in spite of that, and it has taught me some harsh lessons. We are both so alone in the world, but alas, so disparate in circumstance!" He sighed.

He bade me farewell soon afterwards, and I went to retrieve my brush, pondering his words. Although his self-pity rankled me at the best of times, I intuitively grasped the truth behind his words, leaving me with a new and startling insight; namely, that sometimes the mountain's pinnacle, although breathtaking, instilling a sense of invincibility in those who succeed in scaling its' heights, can be the most desolate, the loneliest, the most dangerous place of all.

Before leaving me that day, he'd informed me that he would call for me should he ever need me. I shrugged off his declaration; convinced nothing would ever come of it. Then one evening, approximately two weeks after our conversation in the courtyard, I had just settled into bed when I felt a rough hand touch my shoulder. I jerked upright and saw that the intruder was a Praetorian.

"Hurry" he growled. "The Emperor wishes to speak with you,"

Kicking off my snarled bedclothes, I dashed over to my water bowl to scrub my face. The Praetorian politely turned his back as I dispensed with my sleeping garments and climbed into my simple gown. I was about to put up my hair when the Praetorian turned to me. "Make haste!" he snapped. "The Emperor does not like to be kept waiting!" Conceding the battle, I let my hair hang loose, spilling over my shoulders and down my back in a wavy curtain of flame. Sliding my feet into my sandals, I silently hoped Commodus would not scold me for appearing before him with hair unkempt.

Following the guard up the stairs and along the corridor, a distinct sense of unease stirred within me. What if Commodes had misinterpreted our mutual amiability in the garden as evidence of unwavering devotion, and sought to use this perceived factor to blackmail me into spying for him, perhaps even on my fellow members of staff? I knew how manipulative he could be from first-hand experience. My long-thwarted plan of escape stirred again in the back of my suspicious mind.

But what if there was _another_ reason for his summons? I was aware that some of the other servants-both male and female - had been roused from their beds late at night in order to "service" the Emperor. I personally had so far never been "summoned" thus, although one night I witnessed Hestia tiptoe into the alcove and climb into her bed, her face pinched creased with anxiety and exhaustion. "_Please_ don't tell Cleandrus!" she'd whispered, distraught. I couldn't say anything. I knew perfectly well where she had been. Cleandrus had, in fact, returned from the same place a couple of nights earlier.

Arriving at the door of the Emperor's personal chambers, the guard signalled to me to stay put while he went inside. "She is here, Sire," I heard him say.

"Bring her in, Atticus"

He was sitting at his desk, eyes shadowed with terminal fatigue. I bowed. "Sire."

"Come, Vinca. Sit." He gestured towards the seat on the opposite side of his desk. Hesitantly, I took it.

"You may recall," he said, pausing for breath, "that I said I would call for you if I required your presence. That time has come." His luminous eyes held me in place.

"Permission to speak frankly, Sire?"

"You may"

Taking a deep breath, I plunged forward. "Please excuse my ignorance, Sire, but I cannot see how anything I have to say could possibly hold any interest or value for you. I am but a mere slave, and surely you would profit from rest rather than my humble company. It is late, Sire, and if you don't mind me saying so, you appear fatigued..."

"Oh don't be so silly Vinca! I don't expect you to address the Senate on my behalf or anything like that! And, while we are on the subject, _do_ stop that ridiculous bowing each time you open your mouth to speak. It really isn't necessary, and it vexes me so. Anyway, just because you are a slave doesn't mean you have no opinions of your own. You strike me as a very bright girl, and I enjoy your company. So come through to my room, and we will talk." The finality of his words dissuaded me from pressing the point further.

He asked me to pour him a goblet of wine, "and to get some for yourself." We perched on the edge of his bed; I astonished at his sudden benevolence. Did he have seduction in mind? I grudgingly admitted to myself that the idea did not seem as distasteful as I'd originally thought.

To his credit, he didn't attempt to cross this barrier. We engaged in small talk for a while, and he admitted he was very tired but was unable to sleep. "I've tried everything," he sighed. "Sleeping -draughts, reading...nothing works. I can't relax. Too much is at stake."

Changing direction, he asked about my hair.

"What an extraordinary colour it is! And so abundant! Is it natural, or do you put henna on it?"

"It's all natural, Sire" I informed him. This seemed to please him.

More wine was poured. My head began to feel light. I felt more carefree than I had done for some time.

"So," Commodus asked. "What hidden talents does our wonderful Vinca profess, in addition to her considerable domestic ones?" He looked at me teasingly, with an attractive half-smile skewed by the distinguishing scar.

.

"I, er, I don't really know, Sire. My most intimate relationship is with the cloth and bucket, so that doesn't really leave much time for the nurturing of talent..."

He burst into delighted peals of laughter. "Oh, _do_ come on, Vinca! There must be something! Singing, dancing, ..."

"I, er, I could try to sing for you, Sire..." Feeling a little awkward, I shifted on the bed and toyed with a curl of hair.

"_Sing for me?"_ He laughed, astonished. _"Can _you sing?"

"Well, Sire, I could try...but please don't hold me responsible if it displeases you..."

He clapped his hands in delight. "Very well. Go ahead, sing for me." He leaned back into the pillows and folded his arms in anticipation.

So I did. My voice is not the sweetest in the world, but it isn't the worst either. I can hold a tune, put it that way. It was an old Briton folk song, sweet, melodious and haunting. When I had finished, Commodus clapped his hands and smiled at me, eyes rapt with amazement.

"Ah, a woman of profound talent. Come, Vinca, lie next to me. Sing me to sleep."

As I positioned myself next to him he nestled closer, putting an arm around me. I flinched and froze. To his credit, he noticed. Gazing up at me, he smiled, hoping to reassure me. "I'm not going to take advantage of you, Vinca, of that you can be certain. I don't want that with you. Sing for me instead, that would be more than enough."

It was another folk song, reminiscent of a lullaby, of soft, undulating breeze, of sad, silent clouds in gentle procession. The song evoked memories and I lost myself in it. When I had finished, I glanced at the weary young man in my arms. His eyes were wet with tears.

"My mother used to sing to me" he murmured.


	6. Chapter Five

****

Chapter Five

The following morning saw me sweeping the tiles of the Palace courtyard. The light was clear and pure; the soft breeze bore the ever-so-slight hint of a chill. Then a voice behind me stirred me into dropping my brush and I whipped round quickly to behold the voices' source. 

"Sla...Vinca?" 

There stood Commodus, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, rubbing the tops of his arms as if to warm them. It was only the second time he'd bothered to use my first name; the preceding incident was the day he'd accosted me in the corridor almost two years before. On that particular occasion he'd been far too angry to pay attention to simple matters of address. Having said that, Lucilla, the old Emperor, and Lucius had always professed the good grace to use my name. Bowing as required, I spoke.

"Good morning, Sire. What can I do for you?"

Commodus smiled shyly and glanced behind him, then turned back to meet my gaze.

"I-I have come out to see how you are doing..." he stammered. He fidgeted slightly, scratched the end of his nose, and took a deep breath. "In truth, Vinca, I wanted.... I wanted to thank you for... taking care of me last night, when I...when I was ill..."

Now this_ was_ a first! The Emperor Commodus, stooping to actually_ thank_ a slave; and more to the point, one he didn't seem particularly enamoured of until now! Then my cynical inner self lunged forth, gesturing frantically. What on earth could his motive be? Was it fair to think in these terms? Did he even _have_ a motive?

I bowed. "I am most honoured, Sire. I trust that you are well" Picking up my brush, I resumed my work.

"Vinca, please put down the brush and walk with me awhile"

Puzzled, and with more than a little caution, I carefully placed the brush on the ground. Depressingly familiar with his irascibility and swift, unprovoked mood-changes, I grudgingly acknowledged that this sudden display of amiability could well be a precursor to something far more hostile in intent. Still, he _was_ Emperor, and to disobey him would be akin to diving headlong into a vat of boiling water.

"I'd simply like to talk to you, Vinca. Get to know you a little better. I am aware that we have had our ...differences of opinion, shall we say, in the past; but I am eager to build good relations with all my members of staff. I have great plans for the Empire, Vinca, and I need a loyal and productive workforce behind me if I am ever to achieve my goals." 

He peered at the ground as he spoke, chewing a manicured fingernail, a gesture betraying more than a smidgeon of self-doubt. 

We strolled at a leisurely pace in mutual silence for several minutes. He broke it first.

"Tell me about Britannia" he said. "You were born there, were you not?"

"Yes Sire, I was"

"I hear it is a terribly cold and desolate place"

"Sire, it was my birth land. I acclimatised in the cradle."

"Is it an ugly place?"

"It depends on how one's eye is trained, Sire. Parts are indeed beautiful, green and lush. There are birds, and streams, and hills...not great mountains like the mighty Alpine peaks, Sire, but they have a beauty of their own. The weather is temperamental."

"Do you miss it?"

"I can barely recall it, Sire" This wasn't strictly true.

"Of course. You were take...you _left_ there as a young girl. How terribly ignorant of me. I apologise; it must have been a difficult experience for you." Reaching out, he touched my shoulder.

"Even the most...the most beautiful places on earth can seem cold and desolate when one is lonely." he suddenly said, and I had the strangest feeling that he was talking about himself.

He stopped and spun round to face me. "You acclimatised in the cradle, Vinca. That means you are strong." He narrowed his eyes, his gaze intensifying, beckoning a reply.

"Please excuse my ignorance, Sire, but I don't understand."

"You and I, we...are both more alike that you realise. You were born strong; I, on the other hand, was not. Yet we have both had to fight for respect in our own ways."

"But I've never fought for anything, Sire. I simply get on with things, letting life take care of itself. In many ways I am fortunate; I have a mattress on which to lie, a roof over my head...and indeed, what a roof! I have three meals a day and clean water to drink. Many people don't have even that."

"Oh, but you have fought, Vinca...in a way, you are as tough as the mightiest gladiator ever to set foot in the Flavian Ampitheatre. You were taken from your family against your will then enslaved by your captors. You may never see your family again, yet you have endured. Every single day is a battle for you, yet you withstand it without complaint, and I find that intriguing. I was born into privilege, although my upbringing was far from happy in spite of that, and it has taught me some harsh lessons. We are both so alone in the world, but alas, so disparate in circumstance!" He sighed.

He bade me farewell soon afterwards, and I went to retrieve my brush, pondering his words. Although his self-pity rankled me at the best of times, I intuitively grasped the truth behind his words, leaving me with a new and startling insight; namely, that sometimes the mountain's pinnacle, although breathtaking, instilling a sense of invincibility in those who succeed in scaling its' heights, can be the most desolate, the loneliest, the most dangerous place of all.

Before leaving me that day, he'd informed me that he would call for me should he ever need me. I shrugged off his declaration; convinced nothing would ever come of it. Then one evening, approximately two weeks after our conversation in the courtyard, I had just settled into bed when I felt a rough hand touch my shoulder. I jerked upright and saw that the intruder was a Praetorian.

"Hurry" he growled. "The Emperor wishes to speak with you,"

Kicking off my snarled bedclothes, I dashed over to my water bowl to scrub my face. The Praetorian politely turned his back as I dispensed with my sleeping garments and climbed into my simple gown. I was about to put up my hair when the Praetorian turned to me. "Make haste!" he snapped. "The Emperor does not like to be kept waiting!" Conceding the battle, I let my hair hang loose, spilling over my shoulders and down my back in a wavy curtain of flame. Sliding my feet into my sandals, I silently hoped Commodus would not scold me for appearing before him with hair unkempt.

Following the guard up the stairs and along the corridor, a distinct sense of unease stirred within me. What if Commodes had misinterpreted our mutual amiability in the garden as evidence of unwavering devotion, and sought to use this perceived factor to blackmail me into spying for him, perhaps even on my fellow members of staff? I knew how manipulative he could be from first-hand experience. My long-thwarted plan of escape stirred again in the back of my suspicious mind.

But what if there was _another_ reason for his summons? I was aware that some of the other servants-both male and female - had been roused from their beds late at night in order to "service" the Emperor. I personally had so far never been "summoned" thus, although one night I witnessed Hestia tiptoe into the alcove and climb into her bed, her face pinched creased with anxiety and exhaustion. "_Please_ don't tell Cleandrus!" she'd whispered, distraught. I couldn't say anything. I knew perfectly well where she had been. Cleandrus had, in fact, returned from the same place a couple of nights earlier.

Arriving at the door of the Emperor's personal chambers, the guard signalled to me to stay put while he went inside. "She is here, Sire," I heard him say.

"Bring her in, Atticus"

He was sitting at his desk, eyes shadowed with terminal fatigue. I bowed. "Sire."

"Come, Vinca. Sit." He gestured towards the seat on the opposite side of his desk. Hesitantly, I took it.

"You may recall," he said, pausing for breath, "that I said I would call for you if I required your presence. That time has come." His luminous eyes held me in place.

"Permission to speak frankly, Sire?"

"You may"

Taking a deep breath, I plunged forward. "Please excuse my ignorance, Sire, but I cannot see how anything I have to say could possibly hold any interest or value for you. I am but a mere slave, and surely you would profit from rest rather than my humble company. It is late, Sire, and if you don't mind me saying so, you appear fatigued..."

"Oh don't be so silly Vinca! I don't expect you to address the Senate on my behalf or anything like that! And, while we are on the subject, _do_ stop that ridiculous bowing each time you open your mouth to speak. It really isn't necessary, and it vexes me so. Anyway, just because you are a slave doesn't mean you have no opinions of your own. You strike me as a very bright girl, and I enjoy your company. So come through to my room, and we will talk." The finality of his words dissuaded me from pressing the point further.

He asked me to pour him a goblet of wine, "and to get some for yourself." We perched on the edge of his bed; I astonished at his sudden benevolence. Did he have seduction in mind? I grudgingly admitted to myself that the idea did not seem as distasteful as I'd originally thought.

To his credit, he didn't attempt to cross this barrier. We engaged in small talk for a while, and he admitted he was very tired but was unable to sleep. "I've tried everything," he sighed. "Sleeping -draughts, reading...nothing works. I can't relax. Too much is at stake."

Changing direction, he asked about my hair.

"What an extraordinary colour it is! And so abundant! Is it natural, or do you put henna on it?"

"It's all natural, Sire" I informed him. This seemed to please him.

More wine was poured. My head began to feel light. I felt more carefree than I had done for some time.

"So," Commodus asked. "What hidden talents does our wonderful Vinca profess, in addition to her considerable domestic ones?" He looked at me teasingly, with an attractive half-smile skewed by the distinguishing scar.

.

"I, er, I don't really know, Sire. My most intimate relationship is with the cloth and bucket, so that doesn't really leave much time for the nurturing of talent..."

He burst into delighted peals of laughter. "Oh, _do_ come on, Vinca! There must be something! Singing, dancing, ..."

"I, er, I could try to sing for you, Sire..." Feeling a little awkward, I shifted on the bed and toyed with a curl of hair.

"_Sing for me?"_ He laughed, astonished. _"Can _you sing?"

"Well, Sire, I could try...but please don't hold me responsible if it displeases you..."

He clapped his hands in delight. "Very well. Go ahead, sing for me." He leaned back into the pillows and folded his arms in anticipation.

So I did. My voice is not the sweetest in the world, but it isn't the worst either. I can hold a tune, put it that way. It was an old Briton folk song, sweet, melodious and haunting. When I had finished, Commodus clapped his hands and smiled at me, eyes rapt with amazement.

"Ah, a woman of profound talent. Come, Vinca, lie next to me. Sing me to sleep."

As I positioned myself next to him he nestled closer, putting an arm around me. I flinched and froze. To his credit, he noticed. Gazing up at me, he smiled, hoping to reassure me. "I'm not going to take advantage of you, Vinca, of that you can be certain. I don't want that with you. Sing for me instead, that would be more than enough."

It was another folk song, reminiscent of a lullaby, of soft, undulating breeze, of sad, silent clouds in gentle procession. The song evoked memories and I lost myself in it. When I had finished, I glanced at the weary young man in my arms. His eyes were wet with tears.

"My mother used to sing to me" he murmured.


End file.
